The aftermath

Michael stood near the large window of his chambers, the morning light casting a golden hue over the marble floors. His arms were crossed over his chest, his mind already far away, focused on the duties ahead.

Two weeks.

That was how long he'd be gone.

Longer than he wanted.

His kingdom demanded his presence elsewhere—trade negotiations, border disputes, meetings with allied rulers. It was necessary, unavoidable. Since there's no peace in the west and he had to fix it.

But as he turned his gaze toward the silk-covered bed, where Lylie still lay tangled in the sheets, a sense of unease settled in his chest.

She had exhausted herself the night before, and he hadn't had the heart to wake her just yet. Even in sleep, her lips parted slightly, as if she might start talking at any moment.

A small smirk tugged at his lips. That woman never shuts up.

But damn it, he liked it.